This poem is by Larry Moran, a morel picker member of the Thompson Okanagan convivium. He wrote it during the 2014 season up in the Yukon.
I’m known as a crazy morel picker
I search the forest fires from last year
My list of maps grows ever thicker
In the hunt of the adventure I hold dear.
This year I’m off to the Yukon
There’s 250,000 Hectares that have burnt down
It’s 3000 Kilometers that I’ll put on.
To reach Carmacks, they call it a town
I travel up the Alaska Highway
It goes on and on and never seems to end
You know if I had it my way
I’d be there after the roads next bend
Finally after spending $1,000 on fuel
I arrive in the Mushroom camp
Only to find that the conditions are cruel
For the Morels that I will have to tramp
I have to pay to cross the Yukon River
To get the to the fire on the other side
The thought of this makes me quiver
But what the Hell, I’ll swallow my pride
I pay for a quad ride for five days.
To get into the Morel patch
It’s a small price that I’ll pay
For the total amount of scratch
After that I have to hike and hike
To get to where the Morels are
Some days I wish I had a dirt Bike
Instead of on my foot this ugly scar
Many days when I pick the bugs are real bad
But I have to get them out of my head
If I don’t they will drive me absolutely mad
And run back to camp with no Morels which I’ll dread
This year the price of Morels is really high
And so it seems is everyone in camp
But as the morels diminish in supply
The spirits of the pickers start to go damp
So finally the season is done
And it’s time to pack up and go
For some reason I call it all fun
Why the Hell I will never know
I head out for home down the road
Turn on the radio to see what’s going on everywhere
They say in B.C. there’s a heavy fire load
I let out a cheer there will be Morels next year.
Larry Moran